


Avaritia

by ColorfulStabwound



Series: Draco Malfoy Presents the Seven Deadly Sins [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Any given day, As close to Dior as you'll ever be, Avaritia, Blow Jobs, Christian Dior, Christian Dior can suck my cock, Designer clothes, Dior - Freeform, Dior's bitch boy, Draco Malfoy Presents the Seven Deadly Sins, Draco loves it, Draco the teacher, In the closet with Draco and Theodore, M/M, Seven Deadly Sins, Sex with Menswear, Theodore loves it, Theodore you brute!, greed - Freeform, neckties
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-05
Updated: 2016-04-05
Packaged: 2018-05-31 12:01:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6469336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColorfulStabwound/pseuds/ColorfulStabwound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You still remember the first time you saw him...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Avaritia

**Author's Note:**

> Draco has always been Dior's bitch boy Theodore, you know that.
> 
> For Unkissed and for Theodore, Eternally.

_You still remember the first time you saw him…_

 

You were fourteen years old with the weight of the world on your shoulders. At the time, you had no idea of the places he would take you or how he would one day make you feel whole and complete, like no other. But you were still young, you still had so much to learn yet.

 

It was really nineteen when he entered your life for good and wrapped himself around the fabric of your very makeup and refused to let you go. It was never a struggle between you; you wanted it and you welcomed him with open arms.

 

No one touches you like he does, _no one._ When you are alone with him you don’t have to be anyone other than who you are and he accepts you, wholly. He makes you feel sexy and he alive; he accentuates your beauty and takes you to levels of excess and pleasure that you never knew were possible. His caress is always cool and always reverent and every time is like the first time. You have already surrendered you life to him because you love him so totally that it borders on obscene. He takes everything you have to give and shows you his love in the reflection of your mirror, every single day. You will always be together, _always_ , and may Merlin have mercy on anyone who dares come between you.

 

_His name is Christian Dior and you are his bitch._

Your love affair with Dior is as timeless as the cut of the designer suits that hang neatly in your wardrobe, waiting to lovingly adorn your body and make you a better man. Every time you step inside your closet your pulse quickens and your breath dies in your throat. Every inch of this expansive and lavishly decorated space is dripping in designer menswear and you will never satiate your hunger for it because it is all that you will ever know. You spend hours standing before the full-length mirror in your own closet, admiring the two of you together, as one. Your fingertips walk over the tops of crisp shirts and trousers and trace down the length of silk ties, which leaves you in a euphoric state of semi-arousal. This is your love, your space, and your life. You _belong_ here, with _him_ , above all else.

 

Today could be any day in the way that it is no different than the one before it. Theodore is still buried beneath a thick duvet on the bed when you open the closet doors and disappear inside, wrapped only in the towel from your bath, which sits low on your waist. Dior is waiting for you as you enter, calling to you in the countless rows of perfectly pressed suits and in the satin-lined drawers that are brimming with shiny and expensive cufflinks. You take your time moving down the rows of clothing, slate gaze eyeing each piece with a careful consideration that comes from years of experience. Your skin is still moist and you shiver as your eyes fall upon the navy suit that has always been your favorite. It was no secret that this particular suit was the shining jewel of your entire wardrobe, even Theodore knew that this piece was off limits, even to him.

 

Gooseflesh razes your arms and legs as you reach for it, smooth fingertips caressing the smart fabric in a loving manner. There really isn’t a proper reason to pull this piece today, but you decide that you don’t _really_ need a reason and you take the hanger with you to the full-length mirror.

 

When you unhook the bath towel from around your waist and let it fall you don’t feel exposed, you feel free. You are not ashamed of the state of your arousal because you know that Dior understands you; that he welcomes this side of you. Your breath is hot and constricted as you slide the crisp white button down from its hanger, the delicate pinstripes within the fabric calling to you like a gentle sirens wail. You are unsure if the art of getting oneself dressed is as sexual for the rest of the world as it is for you and you find that you do not really care. Perhaps these moments between you and Dior are special, unique, and you covet them deeply.

 

You don’t hear him when he slips out of bed and creeps quietly into your wardrobe because you are too focused on your own reflection and how the flat lines of your chest peek out between the part in the unbuttoned shirt you are wearing. He knows that look in your eyes and he recognizes that flush mottling your skin because it is generally him who puts it there.

 

Theodore hovers near the closet door and watches you, utterly fascinated by the exquisite picture that you make, surrounded by obscenely expensive clothing and as bare as the day you were born. There was a time, perhaps when he was younger and far more foolish than he is now, that he might have been jealous of your torrid love affair with Christian Dior—Merlin knows he’s taken the man’s name in vain more times than should be possible over the years. But Theodore is not jealous because he _thinks_ he understands; and even if he does not, he accepts it because he loves you, even the strange and unexplainable parts that no one could possibly understand.

 

Theodore watches for five full minutes before he says anything at all; three of which, you are acutely aware of. You feel his presence even when you don’t hear him because that is how it is between you. His body calls to you on a spiritual level— _Not unlike Dior_ , you think. When he takes a step further into the space and announces his presence with a comment about the irony of wanking in a closet you chuckle low in your throat; a husky, close-lipped sort of sound that makes the tips of his ears burn almost instantly.

 

You have known Theodore Nott all of your life and have had the distinct pleasure of calling him your spouse for nearly two years; you can detect the mischief in his lilt, even when he is trying to disguise it as sarcasm.

 

“It’s the least I can do for Christian, after all he’s done for me.” You shrug a shoulder casually at him in the mirror before reaching up to the parted shirt still hanging open on your frame, slowly caging the first pearlescent button like a show.

 

Theodore snorts and rolls his eyes because, even though he’s known you long enough to know that you are fucking insane about your clothes, it still strikes him with disbelief when you speak about them like they are sentient things. “Christian Dior can suck my cock.” He mutters under his breath, stepping up behind you and reaching up to trace the tip of his index finger down your spine, over the shirt.

 

If you had a Galleon for every time that you had heard Theodore suggest Dior could suck him off over the years, The Malfoy vault at Gringotts would need to be doubled in size. It was a game between you, you were quite aware; and although you did not necessarily approve of debasing the names of saints (because let’s face it, Christian Dior is a mother fucking SAINT), you indulged him because, much like he, you loved him for all that he was—Even if that was someone who lacked a refined appreciation for designer menswear.

 

“You should be so lucky,” You replied in that casually flippant tone that you knew made his insides twist with desire.

 

Theodore’s fingers twisted in the back of your shirt at your words and he peered over your shoulder at your reflection. “Careful,” You warned, brow arching only just, fingers stilling on the tiny button still in your grasp.

 

“Or what?” He challenged, his fist tightening on the crisp fabric and rendering it un-wearable and in need of a fresh pressing.

 

You were acutely aware of just how much the fabric screamed in his brutal grasp because you are connected to your clothes on an obscenely deeper level. You wanted to spin around and smack his hand away from the garment but you resisted because _that_ , is precisely what Theodore wanted.

 

There were no words exchanged as you fixated on his glare in the mirror, fingers setting to work once again on the buttons that still sat patiently, waiting your attention. The corner of your mouth curled slightly with a smirk that maddened him and the flush that sat high on his cheekbones was mildly satisfying.

 

Theodore knew this game well. The silent struggle for power between you was something that he loved about the relationship the most, but this was different. If Theodore was being brutally honest he didn’t _want_ to share power with Christian Dior. You were _his_ and Dior could go to straight to hell. “This is what I think of Christian Dior.” He hissed over your shoulder, reaching around your middle and taking the two sides of the partially buttoned shirt in his hands. There was fire gleaming in his eyes as he stared at your reflection and although you knew what was coming before it happened, you could do nothing to stop it.

 

A soft gasp escaped you as Theodore tugged firmly on the shirt, sending broken and ruined buttons cascading to the floor and rolling away for shelter from his wrath. Your fingers shook with fury and with desire as the garment was unceremoniously tugged off of you and balled into a wrinkled mess, only to be tossed aside with a derisive snort. Your chest ached with the quiet loss of another shirt at the hands of your brute husband and despite your total lack of clothing, you felt emboldened with a self-righteous need to right this terrible wrong against your wardrobe.

 

“Fuck Dior,” Theodore announced smugly, cerulean gaze tearing itself away from the crumpled shirt on the floor to stare defiantly at your reflection.

 

Every inch of your body was teeming with anger and loss and yeah, even pride. This was far from the first time Theodore had purposely baited you into reacting with punishment. Sometimes you wondered if he really _did_ abhor designer clothing as much as he said he did, or if he simply knew that defacing them was a weapon that he could wield against you whenever the mood suited him.

 

Despite the inner turmoil that roiled your blood you remained outwardly calm. Slowly, you turned to face him, taking his wrists in the circle of your fingers and pulling him close enough to feel the puffs of his hot breath on your face. “Jealousy suits you,” You whisper, leaning so close that the tip of your nose presses gently against his throat. He smelled of stale nicotine and a faint underlying hint of 4711; both of which quickened your pulse. A soft shudder of appreciation at the contact escaped him and somehow he still managed to jerk his head away from you defiantly, brows knitted together in a scowl. “I’m not jealous of your clothes, that’s fucking ridiculous.” His words make you smirk, not because you think they hold merit, but because you know he is full of shit. “Liar,” You murmur against his throat as you release one of his wrists, distracting him with wet, open-mouthed kisses along his collarbone.

 

 

Theodore’s eyes flutter open as soft black silk slides around his neck where your mouth had been only moments before. The years he has spent at your side tell him that it is one of your stupid neckties and after he hazards a glance at the thing, he can positively ascertain that it is _definitely_ Dior. He snorts and inwardly rolls his eyes at himself for even knowing that. “Perhaps you just need a better appreciation for Dior,” You say, darkened gaze fixed on his eyes as your hands expertly work the expensive strip of silk into a perfect Windsor Knot that sits loosely at the base of his throat.

 

Theodore watches you carefully, silently extracting the range of fleeting emotions as they filter across your expression and coveting them like shiny trinkets. This isn’t the first time he has had one of your neckties around his neck—He specifically recalls having been made to wear a _particular_ version of this very same tie for months on end—Although **that** , is another story entirely.

 

A soft gasp escapes him when you cinch the tie tightly around his throat, firmly enough to indent his skin. “Feel that?” You ask, leaving the tie in place and reaching for another. “That’s Christian Dior, owning you.” You say smugly, reaching up to slide the second tie over his eyes, knotting it carefully at the back of his head.

 

Theodore does not resist your actions in the slightest because he trusts you and because he is curious. You have always fascinated him, even as a small child, which is perhaps the reason why he refused to share you in adulthood. You were his; created by the hands of the Gods and shorn from the finest makings just for him and no one, not human nor fashion label would change that. “You don’t have to tie me up to have your way with me.” He remarks with a small laugh that you find amusing. This wasn’t about restraint; this wasn’t Thursday, after all. This was a lesson that Theodore **would** learn, one way or another.

 

“You wish,” You replied coolly, and his blinded, coy grin was all the confirmation you needed.

 

In the absence of sight Theodore’s other senses were instantly heightened and he was startlingly aware of everything around him; every upset in the molecules that danced around his bare skin. He shivered imperceptibly as your fingers curled around the tie around his neck and twisted, pinching the delicate flesh enough to pull a sharp gasp from his parted lips. “You don’t need to see Dior to feel his presence,” You say quietly, leaning forward to whisper the words in his ear. “He is everywhere and nowhere, patiently waiting for your surrender.”

 

Your words are imparted upon his skin between delicate kisses that make him shudder and the way his mouth opens and closes without words is so beautiful that you wonder why it’s taken you so long to teach him this particular lesson.

  
Theodore quickly discovers that without his eyes he is far less capable of predicting your actions and each time your lips press against him feel like tiny pin pricks in his nerve endings. Blood pumps thickly in his ears and pulses painfully beneath the tightly cinched tie around his neck and he vaguely wonders if this was your way of paying him back for the strawberry incident from before.

 

You see him visibly shudder as you pull away from him entirely, leaving him only with the firm touch of Christian Dior and a desperately increasing desire. You circle around him predatory-silent, mercury gaze raking over every inch of his pretty, mottled skin. Your eyes linger on the tie that is cinched just a little too tightly around his throat and your mouth curves into a satisfied smirk. You imagine he probably thinks this is payback for nearly killing you with anaphylaxis a few months ago; he is grossly mistaken in that regard, although you suppose this _could_ be a start.

 

“What do you feel?” You ask, pausing at his front to watch him carefully, still not touching him.

 

Theodore cannot see you but he can definitely feel the air around him upset with your every move. The baby-fine hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stand on end and he swallows thickly and licks his dried lips. “Like a fucking mouse,” He says as he curls his fingers into his palms, suddenly desperate for a cigarette.

 

You roll your eyes and shake your head, both unseen by your blinded husband. “Not _how_ , what.” You correct, unmoving.

 

Theodore sighs because he knows that he isn’t getting out of this without playing your game. “I feel like your fucking tie is choking me.” He says plainly, which earns him an unseen smile from you.

 

“Exactly. And that makes you feel what?” You ask, determined to hear the words.

 

Theodore racks his brain for the words he knows you want to hear because he knows that there is no way in hell he can move past this stupid game to the sex until he does. “Helpless?” He mutters with more of a questioning lilt than you would have liked to hear, although you are pleased to see him get to the finish with neat efficiency, all the same.

 

“Is that a question?” You ask because you cannot help yourself, which earns you a derisive snort from Theodore.

 

“Fuck off.” Theodore grumbles, and you can only chuckle under your breath, clearly pleased with yourself.

 

“And _that_ is only a fraction of how Dior makes me feel.” You say, taking a step closer to him. “I _need_ Dior like I need oxygen, like I need _you._ ” Your words are gentle and quiet as you reach for the front of his pajama pants and tug him closer still.

 

Theodore jumps as warm fingers brush against his abdomen and he bites down on his bottom lip to quiet a whimper. He can hardly hear your words over the pounding thrum of his pulse in his own ears but it doesn’t matter, he still understands, or at least he thinks he does.

 

You can feel the unmistakable quiver of anticipation beneath his skin as your fingers hook the waist of his pants and take them down with you to the ground in one sweeping motion, where you kneel before him. When you reach up and wrap a warm hand around Theodore’s freed erection he lets loose the whimper he had retained previous and you smirk smugly up at his blinded form. “I am as close to Christian Dior as you’ll ever be,” You murmur against the moistened head of the cock in your grasp and when his mouth forms that perfect little ‘O’ of understanding, you think he finally gets it.

 

There are no coherent words that Theodore can think of to properly convey how it feels every time his cock brushes against the back of your throat. Although he cannot _see_ you, he can clearly envision you behind his eyelids and he uses that vision now to paint a flawless picture in his own mind. Theodore may not be moved to the levels that you are in this closet, but that was never what this was about, after all. He will never stop trying to subtly win you back from Dior because that is all that he knows, even if he understands why you do what you do. Like you and even like Christian Dior, Theodore is ruled by his greed and often times, consumed by it. He doesn’t understand why he is this way and he finds that he does not care, so long as the end game remains.

 

It doesn’t take very long at all for you to effectively work him into an unseeing, teeming bundle of nerves because you are far too practiced in ways to elicit his pleasure most effectively. He tastes bittersweet on your tongue and you take everything he has to give because maybe your greed bleeds into him as well. You will never cease your quest for _more_ because you have always been selfish and needy and besides, you own your greed and wear it proudly for the entire world to see.

 

 

In the end Christian Dior will own you both, and although Theodore does not yet realize what has happened here, he will.

 

_In time._


End file.
